This seems to be my season for demystification. After the discovery that Robert Plant, a.k.a. the Golden God, is a regular bloke at least most of the time these days, another of my crushes has been demolished with an in-person sighting.
Last night when J and I were standing outside Dominick's on Beverly waiting for our cars, I realized that standing ahead of us in the line was star chef Mario Batali. "Why, Mario," I might have said, "I was just speaking fondly of your dad's salumi." But no, I was dumbstruck, as I have had a crush on Mario since the days of "Molto Mario."
Except that just like my previous illusion perdu, this one was a bit of a disappointment. Everyone knows Mario is largish in volume....I'd assumed he was tall, as well. Well, he's not diminutive, but he's not the larger-than-life person I'd imagined. He is, to quote They Might Be Giants, actual size. Shorts, clogs, and all.
Which scuttled my crush. My relationship with Mario has now entered the platonic phase. All the better to clear the decks, I suppose, so that I may better enjoy Mozza, his forthcoming venture with Nancy Silverton, whenever it opens.
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